Love Hate Tolerate
by FlyMeAwayInYourTARDIS
Summary: John goes on yet another date which of course gets interrupted by our favorite sociopath. This eventually leads to John telling Sherlock exactly how he feels about him. Not sure if I'll continue it, but if so, rated for mentions of masturbation and later chapters. Johlock warning. Rather fluffy first chapter as well.
1. Chapter 1

**So I got such a great response from my last JohnLock fic and this idea just seized me, so here I am, with another JohnLock, churned out in a day. **

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John Watson sat at a small table in a candlelit restaurant, fillet mignon garnished with a light sauce and rosemary before him. Across the tabletop where his date had been sitting moments ago was a Caesar salad. She was a nice woman, in her mid-thirties, blonde hair and green eyes, freckles dancing across her button nose. She wore a slinky black dress that showed just enough cleavage and hung low enough to brush her knee; the proper kind of dress for a thirty-something-year-old. She was just the kind of woman John would be interested in, and so far he thought the date had been going pretty well. Until she excused herself to the ladies room.

John had been living with Sherlock and observing his deductions for long enough to have picked up some people-reading skills. And he read her like and open book. She was not having a good time. The smile on her carefully made-up face was fake, not reaching her eyes in the slightest. After saying 'Excuse me,' standing up and pushing her chair back in, she hurried away in no casual manner.

She had been gone for five minutes when John's phone vibrated against his leg, sending a fleeting jolt of arousal through him followed by the thought, "Finally, something interesting tonight."

_Really John, why don't you give up? –SH _

He quickly replied with, **Because I'm a lonely old bloke and there has to be someone out there willing to put up with both me and you. –JW**

_I put up with you. –SH_

**I want a romantic relationship. –JW**

_I'm capable of romance. –SH_

**With a woman. And no, you aren't. –JW**

_Your date left you. –SH_

**Don't change the subject. –JW**

**Wait what?-JW **

_Your date left you, John. –SH_

**And just why do you say that? –JW**

_She left for the bathroom fifteen minutes ago. –SH_

**Maybe she has digestive issues. –JW**

_No. –SH_

**Freshening her make-up. –JW**

_No. –SH _

**Chatting? –JW**

_Give it up, John. Stop trying to save the date. Just come home; you know it's over.-SH_

**Fine. I hate you. –JW**

_No you don't. –SH_

John let the last text go unanswered as he emptied his wallet to cover the bill. With a sigh he pushed back his chair, donned his jacket, and headed into the chill night air, forced to walk the few blocks to Baker Street by his empty wallet. But it did give him more time to think.

He and Sherlock had always had a platonic relationship that occasionally crossed a line or two, as they did share a flat. Maybe one would leave the bathroom door open while pissing; or they'd brush their teeth together, elbowing the other out of the way which always ended in fits of girlish giggles; Maybe Sherlock would be curled up on the couch and John would lift his head or his feet and sit back down, replacing the detective's body parts on his lap so he could watch the telly.

But he had never thought about the man in a romantic or sexual way, save for a few times the detective would unwittingly do something extremely erotic and John's body would respond to it and he would have to excuse himself to deal with his problem. Because dammit, it had been over four years and that man was gorgeous.

As he walked, he pondered the love/hate/tolerate/masturbate relationship they had, thoughts of his days in the army floating back to him. The days when, when his young body so demanded, he would allow himself to indulge in some erotic activities with one of the other men. It was a rather accepted practice among them, as the women were scarce and they were young. But John had only done so when strictly necessary, when his almost daily erection refused to respond to thoughts of biology textbooks, the elderly, the danger he put himself and his men in every day.

He had never actually considered the possibility that he might just be. . .gay. Although that would justify his reaction to Sherlock's sensuality. But… no, he just couldn't think of Sherlock in a romantic relationship. He was too disconnected from emotion.

Shaking his head, he opened the door to 221B Baker Street and climbed the stairs to their room, where Sherlock lay curled up on the sofa in his dressing gown and boxers, staring blankly at the television, which of course was off.

When he heard John's footsteps, Sherlock picked his head up. "Ah, good; you're home!"

"Why? What do you need?" John asked, knowing that when it was 'good' he was home, it was actually very, very bad.

"Nothing. I'm just glad you're home."

"Right," John said, taking his coat off and lifting Sherlock's head to sit down before gently placing the halo of dark curls on his lap.

He began stroking the soft hair absentmindedly and Sherlock relaxed into him, heartbeat slowing, a soft, continuous rumbling emanating from his chest.

"Sherlock, are you…purring?" John asked skeptically.

The detective did not answer, instead looking up at John, pale gray-blue eyes calm yet piercing, before looking away again.

John sighed and rolled his own hazel eyes. His flat mate _was_ a sociopath.

After a half comfortable-half awkward silence that lasted a lengthy five minutes, John spoke again.

"Sherlock I—"

"John, stop." The detective said, putting up a hand.

The army doctor snapped his mouth shut.

"Every date you go on ends badly, either because she leaves because she's not interested, or she doesn't meet your standards. Now, why exactly would she leave? Either because you're not invested and so putting forth little to no effort, or because you're putting forth too much effort in an attempt to make something work to convince yourself that you're straight.

John huffed indignantly. "I'm not g—"

"John," Sherlock interjected calmly. "When was the last time you were with a woman?"

Watson thought for a minute. "fif…teen years?" he answered haltingly.

"Exactly. And how 'good' was it?"

"Alright," he mumbled.

"And the last time you were with a man?"

"How do you—"

"John, just answer the question."

"Night before I got shot." He said quietly.

"And how 'good' was it?"

John didn't answer, instead silently fuming and thinking.

"Case and point." Sherlock said, a self-satisfied smirk on his pale face. He rolled to stare at the ceiling as John drew in a breath to speak.

"No, Sherlock. Don't look so happy with yourself."

"Well, fine. I know it wasn't a difficult deduction to make but I have a right to feel some pr—"

"That's not what I _mean_, Sherlock!"

"Oh. What do you mean?" he asked earnestly, looking deep into John's eyes.

"I mean didn't you ever think that maybe I just wanted to live happily in ignorance and denial? That I didn't want to acknowledge the fact that I might just be gay? That maybe I don't want to recognize my feelings for my _fucking gorgeous_ flat mate? That maybe I just wanted to keep on pretending and hoping that someday I could find a nice lady and get married and have a semi-normal life?!"  
He took a breath and continued. "Maybe I don't want to admit that I'm attracted to you, that I've wanked off to you on a number of occasions. Maybe I didn't want to say that I might just be in love with my sociopathic flat mate!? Maybe I just wanted to push it all down and cork it; keep it inside me so I don't have to face the humiliation." By the end the yelling had died down to a whisper, a choked sob or two making its way out of his throat.

Sherlock sat up , turning himself to face John, opening his mouth to speak, but John spoke on.

"And the worst part?" he said quietly. "You can't possibly reciprocate any of my feelings, because you told me yourself the first day I met you; you're not interested. And even if you manage to, we'll never have a relationship that can even begin to resemble normalcy, because you don't know what romance is." The last part was said bitterly, but Sherlock could tell that John was hurt and upset.

He had so much to say to him, so many things to contradict that it would take hours. But some part of him, some little part that had laid latent in him for so long told him to just kiss him; that that would tell John all he needed to know. So he did.

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**It really means a lot to me when the two of 600 review, because yeah, I can see that guys. :( But ya know. **

**Please review! **


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two, my lovelies! I got such a great response from the first chapter, I can't wait to see how this turns out. If all goes well, this will end up post-Reichenbach.

Anyway, enjoy!

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"What. . . what was that?" John asked, pulling away from Sherlock, startled.

"A kiss." Sherlock responded, amazed he had never heard of a kiss before.

"Yes, I know that, I'm not daft. But… Why?"

"I… don't know." The detective replied, moving back in surprise at himself. "But I do... like you, John."

"I… What?"

"I like you. You've changed me. I _feel_ now. You're an amazing companion and great company. You're funny and kind and put up with me no matter what I do."

John guffawed. "I'd hardly say what I do can be called putting up with you."

"You don't leave." Sherlock said in a small voice.

"Oh…Sherlock…" John whispered, brushing a dark curl behind the detective's ear. "No, I don't leave you, and I don't want to. You're beautiful, brilliant, invigorating. I wouldn't leave this life for a million pounds." He held Sherlock's face in his hands tenderly, looking deeply into those pale blue eyes.

"John…" Sherlock murmured.

"Shhh." The doctor said, kissing the pale, perfect lips slowly and tenderly in an attempt to show his sympathy.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into him, one hand moving to the back of his neck. When they parted, Sherlock sighed.

"You're hesitant. You're afraid to put yourself out for me. You don't know what you're getting yourself into, starting a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. You—"

"You could tell all that from a kiss?" John asked skeptically.

"Yes."

"I wonder what you could tell from—"

He was cut off by a pair of lips molding themselves against his, teeth nibbling on his lower lip, a tongue pushing into his mouth to explore and mingle with his.

When Sherlock pulled away, he leaned back, hands steepled beneath his nose. He stayed stationary for a few moments before saying in a factual tone, "I need to prove myself."

"No Sherlo—" John protested.

"It's fine. I understand." He took the doctor's hand in his, stroking the calloused fingers tenderly. "Doctor John Hamish Watson, I will show you romance."

John smiled a little disbelievingly, eyebrows raised. "Right. Of course you will." Sherlock was right though. John did not see him as someone capable of a normal romantic relationship. He was wary to put himself in Sherlock's hands and hope not to be analyzed until his carefully crafted protective shell was nothing but a pile of crumbs and his unadulterated core was exposed, ripe for judgment. Sherlock was all too good at breaking his toys.

"I'll get us reservations at Angelo's."

"No. God, No. Anyone-Lestrade, Donovan, _Anderson_—could walk in and see us on a _date." _

"Oh. Good point. How does Waterloo sound?"

"Far away. Therefore, good."

"Perfect. Friday night sound good?"

"Uh, nope. Got plans."

"What?! With who?" Sherlock asked, eyes wide, panic rising.

John pulled him into a slow kiss, thumb stroking a porcelain cheekbone.

"You, stupid." He said, chuckling at the expression of relief that washed over Sherlock's face.

"John!" Sherlock whined. "Don't do that to me!"

"Sorry. Won't happen again. Now, where were we?" He asked, leaning in for another kiss.

. . . .

Three days later, John was walking out of his room-still adjusting his deep blue tie around his neck—and was greeted by the sight of Sherlock in a baby blue button down shirt and sports coat, black trousers creased perfectly down the centers of his long legs, fabric stretched tight over his hips and crotch.

"Oh."

"You like what you see?" Sherlock purred.

"Oh yes. Very much." John loved light blue on Sherlock; it accentuated his pale porcelain skin and clear blue eyes, making him looks quite ethereal.

"You don't look half bad yourself." He said, gesturing to John' crisp white button down, black trousers and cobalt tie, sport jacket thrown over his shoulder.

"Oh stop it." John said, looking down and blushing slightly.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, arm extended towards John.

John looped his arm around the detective's and they left Baker Street, catching a cab to Waterloo for some so-called 'romance.'

. . . .

A candle sat flickering in the middle of the table, casting dancing shadows across the angular planes of Sherlock's sculpted face. Quiet violin music played in the background and the lighting and melody together created a lovely, romantic ambiance.

John shifted awkwardly in his chair.

"You're fine." Sherlock said quietly, his hand stroking John's on the table. "No one is going to walk in on us. And even if they do, we can say it's for a case. We're being followed or something."

John nodded, letting out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "Okay. Okay." He said quietly, visibly relaxing and turning his hand over to lock his fingers in Sherlock's. He gave the detective a shy smile before retracting his hand to take a sip of wine from his glass.

"This is really good, Sherlock." He remarked. "What is it?"

"It's a Pinot Grigio."

"It's delicious."

"Goes well with alfredo." Sherlock commented.

"Good, cause that's what I ordered."

"I knew you would."

"Of course you did." John said, drawing out the first syllable.

"First night we went out not on a case, just us having dinner, you ordered fettuccine alfredo. Since then you have not had the option, and based on how very much you enjoyed it-and went on about it for days afterwards-I could easily guess what you would be having tonight and so order us a wine that would go very nicely with your choice."

"You're unbelievable." John said, shaking his head in amusement.

"You love it." Sherlock said, a sly smile on his lips.

"I do." John smiled, sharing a look with Sherlock.

. . . .

The date continued on this course through much of dinner until right after the pair ordered dessert—tiramisu for John, tea for Sherlock.

As the waitress sauntered towards the kitchen, tucking the pad of paper into the pocket on her apron, blonde ponytail swaying with each step, Sherlock's phone rang.

As he always does, the detective reached into his breast pocket and retrieved the phone, hit a button and answered with a "Sherlock Holmes."

John was visibly ticked off. He crossed his arms, fingers tapping on the table; his brow furrowed. It was common courtesy to ignore phone calls on a date unless it was an emergency. But of course, since Sherlock knew nothing of common courtesy, he began chatting with Lestrade about the latest case.

Sherlock was not a social person, but all of a sudden, Lestrade was the most interesting an apparently most _important_ man in the world.

And John was the most aggravated and unloved man in the world.

After five minutes of tapping and glaring, John finally spoke up.

"Sherlock."

The man simply held up a finger in a 'one moment' gesture.

"Sherlock." John tried again impatiently.

Again the detective simply held up his finger, pushing it towards the ex-army doctor in an attempt to emphasize its meaning.

With a glower from beneath his deeply furrowed eyebrows, John got up, pulled on his jacket and stormed out of the small restaurant, leaving Sherlock to pay the bill and catch his own cab. He would not be ignored for some bloody ignorant Scotland Yard official. Not on their first, and-based on John's current state of upset—possibly last date.

He hailed a cab and hopped in, spitting out his address bitterly as if everything was the cabbie's fault.

. . . .

Sherlock looked up after tucking his phone back into his coat pocket and was startled not to see John sitting across from him.

"John?"


End file.
